


Magic Happens

by Talithax



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011), Mission: Impossible - Rogue Nation (2015)
Genre: Fade to Black, Halloween, Light Angst, M/M, POV First Person, Party, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 03:18:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5114066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talithax/pseuds/Talithax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Halloween fic.  Party.  Costumes.  Surprises.  (That just about sums it up, really...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magic Happens

**Author's Note:**

> ~ Narrated by Will. Self-beta'd.
> 
> ~ Set during Rogue Nation
> 
> ~ (My own personal tradition of feeling as though I simply HAVE to write a Halloween fic. Even though I leave it later and later every year, and... aaarrgh... only finished it yesterday...)
> 
> ~ More notes at the end!
> 
> ~ Enjoy!
> 
> ~ Oh. And, as always, may your Halloween be as spooky as you want it to be!

============  
Magic Happens  
by TalithaX  
============

 

“For God's sake, would it kill you to smile occasionally!”

“Excuse me?” Straightening my shoulders, I ignore the implied order in the statement just barked at me by Alan Hunley and give the man a cool, borderline dismissive look.

“You're standing there looking as though, hell, I don't know, like you're wanting to vaporise everyone in the room,” Hunley mutters, giving me a sour look in return as he just stops short of poking his finger into my chest.

“Vaporise?” I echo, flashing him a 'blink and you'd miss it' attempt at a smile as I glance slowly around the party. “Oh, I don't want to... vaporise... everyone.” Pausing, I shrug and turn my attention back to Hunley as he continues to glower at me. “That, after all, would be far too quick a death for most of them.”

“Far too...” Trailing off, Hunley sighs and shakes his head. “That's the thing with you, Brandt, I can never tell if you're joking or not.”.”

“What makes you think I was joking?” I murmur, catching Hunley's gaze and, not caring one iota about – much at all at the moment – the fact I'm effectively toying with my superior, giving another insolent shrug.

“It's a party,” he grinds out, “not... Not your very own personal version of hell!”

“No?” I raise an eyebrow and affect an expression of shock. “Could have fooled me.”

“It's... A... Party,” Hunley repeats with another, far more exasperated sounding this time, sigh. “One that, regardless of your opinion on the subject, you're stuck at. So... Suck it up and at least... try... to play nice with others.”

“As you wish...” Trailing off, I smile balefully and give a small bow. “Sir...”

“Just...” Falling silent, he shakes his head and slowly looks me up and down. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?” he queries, taking what he no doubt thinks is a minor victory in terms of having successfully impressed his will on me and changing the subject.

“Ted Annemann,” I reply, giving him an expectant look even though I know full well I'm only indulging in an exercise in futility. “You said, no, you... ordered... that everyone dress up and, being nothing if not dutiful, I decided to come as Ted Annemann.”

“And...” Looking, it just has to be said, as though he's rapidly nearing the end of his tether, Hunley grabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and downs it in one mouthful. “Who exactly is...”

“Was,” I correct helpfully. “He died in the Forties.”

“Of course he did,” Hunley mutters. “So, you're dressed as some... dead guy. Silly me. I don't know why I asked.”

“He was actually one of America's earliest magicians,” I murmur, not so much because I want to take pity on Hunley by actually explaining my costume choice to him but because I simply want him to go away and leave me alone. “Look him up.”

“If you've got to look it up, it's not a good costume,” he counters, shooting me a smug, superior look. “Take mine, for example, you only have to look at me to know I'm...”

“The Penguin,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes in a display of – well, d'oh – long sufferance. “Oddly enough, I get that, but... What? If you'd have preferred I came as yet another Jack Sparrow, Captain America, or Darth Vader, you should have made it clearer on your non-negotiable invite.”

“Fine.” His expression clearly telling me he's had enough of this going nowhere conversation as I have, Hunley turns around and walks – or, given the amount of padding under his suit, waddles – off. “I'll be sure to remember that for next time.”

“Next time?” I mutter under my breath as, leaning back against the wall, I shove my hands in the pockets of my pants and watch Hunley until he disappears into the crowd. “Like there's going to... be... a next time.”

Seriously. Just... No way. It's not Halloween I have a problem with. Hell. It's not even really Hunley, who I know at the end of the day is just trying to do his job to the best of his – admittedly, limited – abilities, himself or the unerring way he just about always seems to be there every time I turn around. No. It's just the CIA in general. It's their 'take no prisoners', dictatorial – 'their way, or the highway' – delusion that they know best arrogance that pisses me off no end. I get that they have an incredibly important role in terms of national security and the gathering of intelligence, but, you know something? So did the IMF. We were, contrary to Hunley's carefully compiled highlight reel of some of the agency's more... explosive... missions, the ones that, through no fault of our own, ended up being far more... overt than they were... covert, good at what we did. Perhaps, and having been stuck, treading water and feigning submissiveness, inside Langley for four months now I can say this with both confidence and conviction, even the best. We played our part, never hesitated to put everything on the line in the name of the greater good, and...

Here we are.

Make that...

… What's left of us.

Thanks to Hunley's – witch hunt – dedication to convincing the inquiry of our alleged lack of professionalism and general unruliness, the IMF is no more. Swallowed up by – its jealous big brother – the CIA for, as far I'm concerned anyway, being too good at its job, it ceased to be four months ago and, again, here we are.

Well, here Benji and I are, anyway.

Luther and Jane, neither of whom took too kindly to the thought of having to work for Hunley and who, particularly in Jane's case, told him in decidedly colourful terms what exactly he could do with with his contract, have moved in to the private sector, while Ethan...

He...

He's just disappeared.

Backed only by the unshakeable belief that The Syndicate is real and that he – alone – has to be the one to bring them to light, he's off doing God knows what in God knows where while Benji and I – suffer – spend our days playing at being dutiful, loyal members of the CIA. It's far from ideal. In fact, as it's definitely... not... what I want to be doing with my time, it sucks. It sucks big time. Viewing me as either some sort of prize or as 'the one most likely to lead us to Hunt', Hunley is like my constant shadow and there are days when I honestly feel as though I can't even go to the bathroom without him lurking and watching my every move. Benji, who's taking his return to the inside, tech world of having to sit behind a computer all day almost as badly as he is both Ethan falling off the grid and the dissolving of the IMF, always looks as though he's only one tiny step off – going postal – hitting the Prozac, while Jane and Luther don't even want anything to do with us because, in their eyes, we've sold our souls to the CIA at the cost of not only our shared history with the IMF, but to Ethan as well.

That's not the case at all, of course it isn't, but seeing how they could think that I don't, I... can't... blame them for keeping their distance. When it all boils down to it, we all just did what it was we felt we had to do. Whether it was taking the perceived high road in preference to pandering to Hunley's power trip, or whether it was staying put – and taking it – in the hope of somehow still managing to be of use to Ethan, we all made our own bed and we're all lying in it. Not happily, granted, but there you go. Some things just never changing, we just do what we have to do. I don't want to be kissing ass here in the CIA any more than Benji does, and it goes without saying that he'd prefer to be out there with Ethan as much as I would, yet he we are. Doing, even it's not with – a smile – good grace, as we're told and playing the high stakes game as best we can. Yes, we could have turned our backs on our careers, the same careers we've both dedicated our lives to and have never really wanted to do anything else but, like Jane and Luther did, but we chose to stay. Not for the pay cheque or because we simply didn't know any better, but for Ethan. We chose to stay, individually and without having discussed it first, because we both thought we could hopefully be of more use to Ethan if we kept close to those focussed on bringing him in. It's not, given how closely we're monitored, easy, and I make a point of never thinking about how much it's all taking out of me, but needing something to hang on to, I just tell myself that it's worth it.

That...

… It has to be worth it.

Just because I don't have Ethan with me doesn't mean that I can't still help him. That...we, what remains of his team, can't still help him. We can, with great difficulty and personal risk, get word to him when Hunley's attack dogs are closing in on his location and we can both hide, and make up, sightings. It's not much, and I certainly don't go to bed feeling as though I've either done a good job or enough, but... it is what it is.

Ethan's... wherever he is, Jane and Luther are doing their own thing, and Benji and I are doing as we're told in the hope of eventually finding the light at the end of the very long and very dark tunnel. 

And, right now, because it's what we were basically ordered to do, we're wearing costumes and, in my case at least, failing miserably at 'playing nice' at the CIA's Halloween party. Although Hunley never came out and said it in as many words, I can't help but get the impression that the party, a no expense spared extravaganza, is a way to show all the other secret service and law enforcement agencies from around the globe that the CIA have the – Problem Child – IMF firmly under their thumb.

Look! Here they are. Docile, compliant, and no longer – doing your job for you – getting in your way! Step right up, step right up! This may be your one and only opportunity to see them in their new habitat.

To be perfectly honest, because Benji and I are the – unlucky – main recipients of Hunley's interest thanks to our relationship with Ethan, I'm surprised he doesn't have us up on the stage in stocks. That, or in a cage by the entrance so everyone can see us as they sign in. We're just seen by him as being that... much... of a trophy. The walking, talking remnants of agency that, for reasons I'm still unclear on, he felt compelled to both fixate on and close down.

I...

I truly hope that he's both happy, and proud with himself.

I also hope that Ethan's hunt for The Syndicate pays off and that, in due course, the IMF's reinstated, our team is back together again, and Hunley is left with so much egg on his face that he can't even see through it.

While I'm at it, my other – most pressing, even – hope is that I make it through tonight without snapping and, in front of their invited audience of agents from all around the world, sharing with the CIA just how disgruntled, unhappy, tetchy, and, while I'm at it, lonely and oddly lost feeling, I really am.

It...

Everything Hunley's effectively succeeded in taking from me, I miss it. I miss it with something akin to an actual physical ache. I miss the sense of pride that came with choosing to be with the IMF, I miss, even though this still comes as something of a surprise to me, the option of being out in the field, I miss the sense of belonging, comfort and camaraderie that came with being part of such a close knit team, and I miss Ethan. 

I miss him so much that there are some days when I literally can't stand it. The not knowing where he is or what he's doing, or... even if he's okay. The not feeling as though I'm doing enough to help him and the sense of helplessness this installs in me. Just... Not having him with me, or... so much as being able to pick up a phone in order to hear his voice. His...

… Touch.

I don't even mean solely in a sexual sense either. More... The casual, fleeting touches that come part and parcel of being so comfortable and close with someone. The warmth and weight of his hand resting on my thigh or the feel of his fingers closing around my shoulder and... just knowing that he derived as much pleasure out of it as I did.

And to think Hunley has the nerve to want me to fucking smile.

I'm toeing the party line by wearing a token costume and putting in a token appearance at his stupid party when, really, I'd far prefer to be just about anywhere else and that, whether he or anyone else likes it or not, is as good as it's going to damn well get. I'll suck up having to work for him, and I'll grit my teeth at all but being told what to wear and where to be, but, seriously, I'll be damned if I'll fucking well smile on cue.

Biting back a sigh, I scan the crowd and spot Benji looking – like I feel – as bored as he does glum by the buffet. Feeling as though it would probably be wise to go over and talk to him before Hunley takes it upon himself to give me another lecture on not 'getting in to the party spirit', I push away from the wall and, without bothering to make eye contact with anyone in my path, make my way across the room. Although I've seen it – and had it explained to me in loving detail – before, Benji's choice of costume still amuses and as I near him I can't help but allow a quick smile to tug momentarily on my lips.

Despite being no more pleased at being told his attendance at the party was non-negotiable than I was, Benji, admittedly to his credit, has actually put some effort into his costume and it shows. Okay, Fine. It's no more... instantly recognisable – than mine is, but what it loses out on in terms of recognition it well and truly makes up for in sheer... cleverness. Unable to decide on which of his many – many, many – favourite geeky things to dress up us, instead of just drawing one out of a hat or simply going for the easiest, he's gone for... all of them. Doctor Who T-shirt, Star Wars watch, Batman logo buckle on a Marvel belt, the 'One' ring from Lord of the Rings on a chain around his neck, a Star Trek 'communicator' hanging out of the pocket of his jeans, Iron Man Nikes and, just for the cherry on top of it all, a Superman cape that's been carefully modified to include a 'N' next to the familiar 'S'.

'S N.'

As in... Super Nerd.

To my way of thinking anyway, it's just so Benji that it's nothing short of perfect. That, and regardless of how Hunley in his self-imposed role of 'Costume Police' feels about it, a hell of a lot better than any of the ideas we'd originally came up with. Pissed at having been hit in the face with yet another example of how, basically, our lives were no longer our own, we'd met up to – bitch and whine – discuss possible costumes over a few drinks and... Let's just say some of the suggestions were certainly on the creative, not to mention... pointed, side. Feeling as though the CIA have us on a very short leash, one thought, early in the evening, of simply hiring dog costumes turned, as the scotch bottle neared empty, to just going with leather hot pants and an actual dog collar, complete, of course, with a leash attached to it. Then there was the – fucking hilarious, I don't think – suggestion from Hunley's favourite ass-kissing minion, Statton, that as we both clearly need to... let it go... we may as well just dress up as whatever their names are from Frozen. Taking this, his ever-so-helpful idea of going down the path of wearing a dress to the next level, we discussed, in far too much detail and over far too much scotch, really putting on a show by going in drag before coming to our senses and realising that, simply put, we just couldn't be bothered putting any real effort into any of it. 

Come morning, and once the hangover had died down to a manageable level, Benji went off to check out what he already had at home before deciding – it was all just too hard – on his 'Super Nerd' idea, while I settled on digging out an old fashioned looking black waistcoat from my wardrobe and, after adding it to both a standard pair of black trousers and white shirt, just going as Ted Annemann. Not only was it a costume I'd worn before – as proven by the kohl pencil and tub of Brylcreem I was able to find in the back of the bathroom cabinet – but it was also one that, albeit in a small way, actually means something to me thanks to my short lived passion for magic and magicians when I ten. Most importantly though, and I'm not ashamed to admit this at all, I had all the pieces already, and, as I didn't have to put myself out in any sort of way to pull it together, it was just easy.

Knowing that no-one would be able to recognise what I was dressed as was just a – perverse – bonus.

Reaching Benji, I lean over his shoulder and, as he glances at me and rolls his eyes in a display of solidarity, whisper, “For God's sake, would it kill you to smile occasionally...”

“You too, huh?” Benji replies, pulling a face as, clearly not finding anything on the buffet to his liking, he shrugs his shoulders and turns his back to the table in order to face me.

“Mmm... Said I looked like I was wanting to vaporise everyone.”

“Vaporise? Wow. I like it,” he responds as a fairly passable interpretation of a grin flashes briefly across his face. “All I got was some lame lecture on not looking very... welcoming. Oh. That, and some crap about not looking...”

“Recognisable enough?” I interject drily.

“How ever did you know?”

“Guess.”

“He hit you with the same disapproving spiel?”

“You got it in one.”

“And... Did you care?”

“Oddly enough, no. I didn't. You?”

“Couldn't give a toss,” Benji retorts cheerfully. “I mean, look. Credit where credit's due and all that, Hunley's Penguin costume is pretty damn faultless and, yes, recognisable, but... Hey. While anyone can go into a costume shop and walk out looking like something straight off a movie set, to me it just smacks of laziness and lacks originality. I mean, take all the Captain Americas walking around. Where's the effort in that?”

“Maybe...” Pausing, I shift to stand alongside Benji and, spotting a group of three Captain Americas standing in a circle by the main entrance, shrug and tilt my head in their direction. “I don't know, maybe they're from Interpol or some other foreign agency and thought it was cool or something?”

“Ha! Foreign and not knowing any better, I could probably forgive,” Benji mutters with both a sigh and a look of disgust. “That lot, though? Forget it. Curious, I did a quick survey and discovered that each and every one of the Captains is actually a SEAL. No doubt believing their own publicity, they probably thought it was just a... natural... choice.”

“Perhaps they phoned each other up and planned it?” I offer as, having already lost interest in the clone-like SEALS, I move back in front of Benji and give another shrug.

“Nope!” he exclaims with what I take to be a note of almost malicious sounding glee. “Get this, they're actually... annoyed... with each other and, given that they haven't moved for close to thirty minutes now, are probably still bickering over who wears it best...” Trailing off, he glances at me and smirks. “I know it's wrong of me, but I keep hoping their argument deteriorates to the point of an actual fight.”

“Failing that, perhaps we should just offer them a ruler and they can see who's a... bigger man... that way,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder at the three men and giving a quick shake of my head. “Let's face it, it sounds like that's what it's going to boil down to.”

“It's funny you should mention that,” Benji responds, his smile broadening as he surreptitiously points to another group of three men standing by the SEALS. “See the Bond wannabe, Musketeer, and... for no other reason than I don't know what he's meant to be and he's short, I'm going with... Hobbit, standing over there looking both bored and as though they've already had enough? Well, they're the partners of the SEALS and when I passed them a little earlier the Hobbit was suggesting exactly the same thing.”

“Fun times all round, then,” I murmur as, saved from what is already striking me as a never-ending conversation about something I don't really give a flying fuck about by the sound of Benji receiving a message, I glance down at the pocket of his jeans and flash him a smirk. “Please don't tell me that Communicator thing of yours actually doubles as phone...”

“Sadly, no,” he replies as he clearly hesitates over retrieving his phone from his pocket. “If it was, the... sheer coolness... factor might lesson the... burn...”

“Burn?” I query, my attention definitely caught by the oddness of Benji's reply in a way not even an entire room of SEALS wearing Captain America costumes ever could. “Do I want to ask?”

“Jane,” Benji mutters, scowling down in the vicinity of his pocket as he continues to make no move to pull his phone out. “She keeps taunting me by sending me pictures of her Halloween costume.”

“At... least she's talking to you again, though. Surely that has...”

“Taunting,” Benji corrects, cutting me off. “Not talking, rubbing my nose in it.”

“Again, do I want to ask?”

“Not only does her party have a cool theme of old time Hollywood glamour, but... she, unlike us, actually wants to be there, and... Her costume. Her costume is just something else again...”

“Don't tell me, let me guess. She's finally come around to your insistence that she'd made a great bikini-clad Princess Leia and is just making sure you know what you're missing out on?”

“No.” He shakes his head and shoots me a mournful look. “Marilyn Monroe. The white dress from The Seven Year Itch. All legs and br...”

“Blonde hair,” I interject, quickly talking over the top of Benji as, not really wanting to hear about my friend's breasts, I close my hand around his shoulder and give it a squeeze. “All legs and... blonde hair.”

“Blonde hair,” Benji repeats, giving me an amused look. “That's... exactly what I was going to say. Now... Speaking of blonde hair,” he continues, making what I take to be a fairly obvious attempt to move the subject on from Jane and how much he's missing her, “what gives with... Mr Generic Eighties Rock Star over there, huh? I swear he keeps staring at you.”

“Maybe he's just trying to work out who I'm supposed to be,” I reply as, not needing to follow Benji's line of sight to know who he's talking about, I shrug and glance down at the buffet. Like just about everything tonight, the unknown man and his apparent interest in me is just another thing I'm not in the mood for. Dressed in tight fitting black leather trousers and a black lace shirt unbuttoned to the waist and with frilly cuffs, the man has shoulder length, wavy blond hair and his unfamiliar looking face is both pale in colour and oddly sickly looking. Just like mine are, his pale, silvery blue eyes are lined in kohl and his overall look is, just as Benji mentioned, one of a sort of Gothic Rock Star. Who exactly he is, let alone who he's supposed to be, though is anyone's guess and the way I keep catching him looking at me is far more cause for annoyance than it is anything else. “Oh... And before you ask, no... I have no idea who he is,” I add flatly. “Not having been anywhere near him, I don't even know which agency he's from.”

“Actually, that I can help you with,” Benji replies, picking up the tag he, just like everyone else in the room, is wearing on his belt and waving it at me. “He's a frog.”

“DGSE?” I murmur, referring to the French Secret Service, Direction générale de la sécurité extérieure, or, as it's known in English, the General Directorate for External Security. “Really? Are you sure? I mean, I can't even recall ever having had anything to do with the French before.”

“Well, that's the emblem on his tag,” Benji confirms as, his eyes widening slightly, he takes a step back and makes to move around me. “And... As he's now heading your way, it looks as though you're about to see it for yourself.”

“What? No.” Choking back a groan, I give Benji a pleading looking and close my hand around his wrist. “Where do you think you're going? Just... Don't leave me.”

“Sorry.” Looking just about anything but apologetic, Benji shakes off my hand and takes another step back. “Being English, my default position is to avoid the French at all costs, so... You're on your own.”

“What? Don't...” Falling silent as I realise I'd only be wasting my breath as Benji has already done a disappearing act, I decide to follow his lead by just walking off when, clearly having left my move too late, the man materialises directly in front of me and blocks my escape.

“Please. I just have to know,” the man murmurs in a thick French accent as, flashing me a half smile, he tries unsuccessfully to catch my eyes. “Your costume, you are meant to be Ted Annemann, yes?”

“Uh...” Any surprise I may have felt at him actually correctly guessing who it is I'm supposed to be being negated by the odd, flustered feeling I'm suddenly feeling at his proximity, I give a brusque nod and, not knowing what else to do with them, fold my arms across my chest. “Yes. You're right. My costume is...”

“That of one of America's founding fathers of magic,” he finishes, his smile broadening as, turning a blind eye to my obvious discomfort, he takes a step closer. “A friend of mine, he was in to magic as a child and once told me about Monsieur Annemann's valuable contributions to the early world of magic.”

“Uh... That's nice,” I murmur lamely as, reluctantly accepting that, short of shoving him away and stalking off, I'm stuck for the time being, I force myself to look him up and down. “And... You? Can I ask who you've come as?”

“Lestat de Lioncourt, at your service,” the replies with an overly grand bow that has me glancing hurriedly around the room to make sure no one's watching the... oddness... I've randomly found myself a part of.

“But...” I shake my head and sigh. Just... Why me? Why, out of all of the people in the room, does this man feel compelled to corner me? “Lestat. Isn't he a vampire?”

Smiling, he opens his mouth to display two perfectly applied fangs. “Of course.”

“But...” Unfolding my arms, I gesture at his clothing and, because it's the night for it, sigh again. “Forgive me, but I thought Lestat was more about... velvet and lace than he was about... uh... leather and lace.”

“He has also been a rock star,” he replies by way of explanation, “and, as he is French, I thought it would make for a unique costume.”

“Well, at least you don't glitter,” I mutter as, shoving my hands in my pockets, I gaze pointedly over his shoulder in the hope of both spotting Benji, and then using him as a polite and valid excuse to take my leave.

“Glitter? I do not...”

“Never mind,” I interrupt. “As we've pretty much exhausted my limited knowledge on vampires anyway, perhaps I should let you go find someone... uh... more appreciative of all the effort you've put into your costume.

“I do not want anyone else,” he retorts, reaching out his hand and, to my decided shock, placing it down on my shoulder. “It is you I want to be with, you... who has drawn my attention ever since I first laid eyes on you.”

“Uh...” Jerking my shoulder back, I marvel at the man's misguided confidence and glare at him. “Look. It's been... uh... nice talking to you, but I've got to...”

“Stay,” he interrupts in a low, commanding tone as he once again places his hand on my shoulder. “Please. I would like very much to get to know you better.”

“You...” Dropping my shoulder, I take a step back and continue to glare at him through narrowed eyes. “I...” Now what? Short of making a scene, just how on earth am I going to extract myself from this? “I... I'm sure you're... uh... worth getting to know better yourself, but I...” Straightening my shoulders, I draw myself up to my full height and force myself to meet his gaze. “I've actually got a partner.”

His face falling, the man affects an expression of crushing disappointment and sighs melodramatically. “You are breaking my heart,” he laments. “But, as I am not one to give up without a fight, your partner... She is here?”

“She... is a he,” I grind out, “and the fact that he isn't here doesn't even come in to it. So, if you'll excuse me...”

“I must insist,” he interjects as, obviously not being one to take no for an answer, he grabs my hand and, even as I try to break free, pulls it towards him. “If you would just give me a moment...”

“I don't have to give you a moment!” I exclaim, watching with mounting horror as he tightens his hold on my hand and, after lifting his shirt out of the way with his free hand, presses it down against the bare skin of the small of his back. “Just... What the fuck are you...” The ability to speak momentarily deserting me, I stare at the man open mouthed as my fingers, almost as though they've got a mind of their own, stroke across a small, raised mole or birthmark.

A... familiar... small, raised mole or birthmark. One that I'm intimately acquainted with.

“I...” Flicking my tongue across my suddenly dry lips, I try to ignore the dull, heavy beat of my heart and whisper, “Jump... Now?”

“Yes,” he replies pulling his hand away from mine and giving me a soft smile as I make no attempt to lift my hand away from his back. “Commit,” he adds in a familiar voice without so much as a hint of a French accent to it. “Jump...”

“Jump?” I echo in a quiet, breathless voice as the full implications of what's – really – happening here start to hit me.

He...

Oh my God.

Ethan.

He's here.

He's really here.

Dressed as a rock star vampire in a room full of agents wanting to bring him in, and...

… Standing before me.

“Jump,” he confirms in a voice almost as breathless as mine. “Now.”

“I...” Nodding, I slowly pull my hand away and, our – secret – code having successfully been played out, allow a warm, genuine smile to stretch across my lips. “Just... Tell me where...”

“Not here,” Ethan replies, glancing around him as he carefully retrieves a small glass vial from out of his pocket. “Not wanting to draw any unwanted attention to your departure, I need you to see if you can get Hunley to drink some of the punch that's being brought out of the kitchen as we speak.”

My smile giving away to a grin, I laugh and, once I've spotted the punch bowl being carried towards the buffet table by a couple of the zombie waiters, nod. “Pre-spiked punch, huh?” I murmur. “Hallucinations, memory loss, or both?”

“Both,” he confirms, returning my grin as he slips the vial back into his pocket. “Think you can do this?”

“Trust me. I've got this,” I reply, leaning instinctively into Ethan's hand as he gently strokes it along the side of my face. “Get Hunley to drink the punch, and...”

“Meet me by the door,” he finishes matter-of-factly as he trails his fingers down my arm. “Now, having already fallen for the bait of seeing his prize specimen being touched up by a random member of the DGSE, here comes Hunley, right on cue.”

“I've got this,” I repeat, letting Ethan curl his fingers around my hand for a few suggestive seconds before, just as the fresh bowl of punch is placed on the table, pulling free and shaking my head. “I... I don't know,” I state, both loudly and just that little bit anxiously as I back away from Ethan. “I mean, I can't. I... Sorry. I just can't.”

“Then, for that I am truly sorry,” Ethan replies sadly in his note perfect French accent as, without bothering to glance at Hunley as he closes in, he turns around and begins to slowly walk off, his feigned sense of dejection obvious in both the slump of his shoulders and every step.

Widening my eyes, I watch him for a moment or two before – throwing everything I've got into pretending to be in a daze – wandering up to the punch bowl and reaching for the ladle.

“Look,” Hunley announces as he sidles up to me, “I'm not saying I get it, myself, but...”

“Sir?” I interrupt, looking at him expectantly as I use the ladle to pour a generous amount of punch into a glass. “Get... What, exactly?”

Blushing, he snatches the glass from out of my hand and, even before I've had time to mentally congratulate myself on having achieved my goal without even trying, takes a quick sip of punch. “The whole... gay... thing,” he mumbles, clearly embarrassed. “I don't get it, and... nor do I want to get it, but... uh... I say go for it...”

“Go for it?” I repeat as, wanting to appear as though I still wanted a drink, I grab the ladle again and pour another glass of punch. “Sir? I...”

“That... whatever he's supposed to be from the DGSE, he clearly wanted you to go with him,” Hunley replies, taking another, much larger this time, mouthful of punch, “and, again, I think you should go for it, that... surely it's time to move on.”

“Move on?” Raising an eyebrow, I pretend to take a sip of punch and wait for him to go on.

“Mmm... From Hunt,” he states, peering at me closely as I no doubt begin to blur in front of him as a result of the concoction Ethan's added to the punch. “You probably don't think I know, but I do. You've lost your little friend and, as I happen to think you can do better anyway, it's time to move on. And, hey, Frenchie's probably as good a place to start as any.” Looking pleased with himself for having... told me how he sees it, Hunley finishes the punch and toasts me with his empty glass. “This is good stuff,” he adds, grinning at me in a truly frightening way as I take it from him and replace it with my full one. “Like, really... good... stuff. You should have some.”

“First you want me to... move on, and now you're saying you want me to stay and share some punch with you?” I murmur, frowning in confusion. “Sir?”

“Just... Go,” Hunley mutters, waving an airy hand towards the entrance and where Ethan's waiting for me. “Go... get some.”

“Get some,” I echo as beads of sweat begin to both run down Hunley's face and ruin his make-up. “That's such a... lovely... way of putting it.”

“Get some. Move on. Whatever.” Finishing his second glass of the punch, Hunley shoves past me and, eschewing the ladle in favour of speed, simply uses his glass to scoop up a refill. “Just go.”

“If you insist,” I murmur, hiding a self-satisfied smirk behind a blank, unreadable mask as, having achieved what I set out to, I start to walk off. “Who said anything about moving on, though,” I add, gracing him with both a quick wink and an even quicker smile, 'but, hey, it's still nice to have your approval.”

“Huh? What are you...” Whatever it is that Ethan added to the punch having already done a good enough job of addling Hunley's brain, he gives up on trying to make sense of my cryptic statement and toasts me again with his glass. “Go. Enjoy yourself. Maybe, I don't know, actually smile like you mean it for a nice fucking change.”

Not wanting to outstay my welcome should Hunley's apparent high suddenly take a nosedive, I give a curt nod and – all the time giving the impression of simply doing as I'm told – leave him to it. Spotting Benji watching me out of the corner of my eye, I pretend not to have seen him for fear of being further delayed and focus solely on making my way over to Ethan. There being too many people in my way to move freely though, Benji, with a disapproving frown plastered all across his face, catches up to me before I've even had time to move a couple of metres and he stops me by both making a tsking – code, I suspect, just what are you up to? – sound under his breath and grabbing my arm.

“Going somewhere?” he demands as, all the time keeping a tight grip on my arm, he both moves in front of me and effectively blocks my path. “You look, I don't know, as though you're going somewhere in a hurry.”

“Uh...”

“Uh... nothing. Come on, spill.” Pausing, Benji grace me with one of his best 'wounded puppy' looks. “Don't forget we're in this hell together.”

“Sorry,” I murmur, shooting him an apologetic look as I pry his hand off my arm. “I know you don't want to hear this, but I'm out of here.”

“What?” He shakes his head and, to my decided amusement, stamps his foot like a petulant child. “Uh-uh. No way. You can't leave me.”

“I can, and... I'm going to,” I reply as, quickly deciding not to risk tripping myself up with too big of a lie, I very deliberately look over in Ethan's direction and shrug. “Believe it or not, I... uh... I'm leaving with him.”

“Him!” Benji exclaims, his eyes widening in an almost comical display of shock. “What happened to not wanting anything to do with him? And... What about Eth... Uh... You know. What about...”

“Hunley's orders,” I interrupt with another shrug. “Trust me. It's not my idea at all and I wouldn't be having a bar of it if I hadn't actually been told to go off with him.”

“What? I don't...”

“Something to do with... US and French relations, I think.”

“Oh.” Despite looking far from convinced by my explanation, Benji nonetheless nods his acceptance of it and sighs. “You're abandoning me here to listen to a Frog drone on about how he no doubt thinks we're doing everything wrong. You know, looking at it that way, I don't even know what's worse. Crap, boring party or... crap, boring DGSE agent with an innate, yet misguided, sense of grandeur.”

“It's certainly a tough call,” I murmur, patting Benji on the shoulder as I make to walk around him. “But... We do as we're told, don't we...”

“Living the dream, that's for sure,” he mutters, stepping back to let me pass. “I take it I'll still see you in the morning, yeah?”

“Assuming he doesn't bore me to death, I would certainly think so,” I reply as, feeling sorry for leaving Benji here on his own, I decide to... throw him a bone. “Just... Think of me as you stay here and enjoy the show.”

“Show?” he queries, giving me a suspicious – 'I knew there was more to it!' – look.

“Mmm... The one starring Hunley that's taking place over by the buffet,” I state. “Oh... And while I'm at it, I'd stay away from the punch if I were you...”

“What? Will? Why do I get the feeling...”

“All I'm saying is drink it at your peril,” I interject, curling my fingers in a small wave as, having already said enough, I walk off and, without glancing over my shoulder to see if he's gazing after me, make my way over to Ethan as quickly as I can manage. Reaching him, I let him take gentle hold of my elbow and allow him to guide me out through the foyer and outside in to the cool night air without comment. Anticipation thrums in my veins as much at the thought of what's to come as it does simply being this close to him after so long and, despite the weight of Ethan's hand on my elbow, I still want to pinch myself that this is even happening, that he really is...

… Here.

“Do I even want to ask what you said to Hunley to get him to drink that quickly?” Ethan asks with open curiosity as he gestures with his free hand towards a silver BMW sedan. “I mean, I knew you could do it, but... Well... The speed at which he was into the punch was something else again.”

“Actually...” Solely, of course, for the benefit for all the CCTV cameras both set up all around the parking lot and recording our every move, I press up against Ethan's side and whisper directly in his ear, “I think he needed it for Dutch courage.”

“Don't tell me he finds you... that... scary?” he replies as, proving that we're still instinctively in sync with each other's moves, he follows my lead by tightening his arm around my elbow and pulling me even closer.

I shake my head and, now that it's – thankfully – in the past and I can find the humour in it, laugh. “More like he needed the courage to... uh... pimp me out!”

“Pimp you... What?” Ethan splutters as we come to a stop by the BMW. “Again, do I even what to ask?”

“Taking, I don't know, pity on me or something,” I murmur, pulling away from Ethan only to place my hands on his chest and propel him gently back against the side of the car, “he magnanimously insisted that I go off with you to, and I quote here, 'get some'.”

“Get some?” Groaning, Ethan slides his arms around my waist and hugs me to him. “That... Uh... That was very thoughtful of him,” he adds, struggling to control his laughter. “Possibly even sort of... well... creepy, but...”

“Not sort of... Definitely creepy,” I correct, curling my fingers around the lace of Ethan's shirt as I only just resist the urge to give in to temptation and kiss him. While, yes, it would be fitting for the performance we're putting on for the cameras, it doesn't matter how good the technology is behind the mask he's wearing, or even how truly life-like it might feel, as I know it just won't... taste... right and I don't want the knowledge that I'm basically kissing rubber raising its ugly head and spoiling the moment. Sure, I'll know that it's Ethan underneath, but...

Patience.

I just have to be patient. 

“Definitely creepy,” he agrees, cupping my butt in his hands and tilting me up against him. “But... As I think I've already heard enough about Hunley and his sideline in pimping out his agents, let's get the hell out of here, yeah?”

“Without a hint of a lie, that would have to be the best idea I've heard in ages,” I reply with a wolfish grin as I reach around Ethan and pull open the driver's side door. “After you,” I add, all but shoving him into the car before, with a laugh, running around to the passenger side and climbing in next to him. “Just... Go! Go, go, go!”

Not needing telling twice, Ethan pulls his seatbelt on with one hand while he slips the key into the ignition and starts the car with the other one. “Anyone would think you were in a hurry,” he comments, putting his foot on the accelerator and sending the BMW shooting forward.

“And you're not?”

“Well... I can definitely think of a few other things I'd rather be doing with my time.”

“A... few, huh?”

“If it helps, they all involve you as well.”

“They... do?”

“Oh... Trust me. Your participation is very much required.”

“In that case... Drive!”

Settling back in my seat, I buckle up the seatbelt and, not really caring if I'm giving one of the biggest gossips in Langley something to talk about, positively beam at the guard on the gate as he waves us out of the CIA compound and on to the road. “Please tell me we don't have far to go,” I murmur hopefully as I turn my attention back to Ethan.

“Not too far,” he replies, giving me a warm smile that, despite his appearance still being that of the Vampire Lestat and not the familiar face of my lover, I feel all the way down to my toes. “Before we get there and it becomes the last thing on my mind,” he continues, ferreting a small black USB drive out of his back pocket and placing it on my lap, “here. I want you to have this.”

“What's on it?” I query, picking it up and placing it in the inside pocket of my waistcoat for safe-keeping. “If it's a collection of your holiday snaps while you've been swanning around the world, I'm telling you now that I'm not sure I'm going to be very impressed.”

“By the time you've finished going through everything on it, you'll know as much about The Syndicate as I do,” Ethan responds lightly. “In fact, knowing how your mind operates, by the time you've read it all you'll probably know... more... about the bastards than I do.”

Feeling, quite literally, as though the wind has just been taken out of my sails at Ethan's – all very logical and justifiable – reasoning for giving me a USB drive full of intel on The Syndicate, I turn my head in an attempt to hide the expression of hurt and disappointment I know I just have to be wearing on my face and gaze out the side window. “So... You're only here because you want me to analyse what you've gathered on The Syndicate, then,” I murmur in a dull, neutral tone. “I... I thought... Uh... Never mind. Of course I'll...”

“Fool,” Ethan interrupts as, certainly sounding far more amused than I'm feeling at the moment, he reaches over and trails the back of his hand along my cheek. “You know, for someone so incredibly intelligent you sure can jump rapidly to the spectacularly wrong conclusion at times.”

“But...” Frowning, I control the urge to lean into Ethan's touch and, with a sigh, jerk my head back. “You just said you want me to...”

“What I said, was when you've read through it you'll be as up to date on their goings on as I am. Yes?”

“Yes, but...”

“Uh! Think about it. Did I, at any point, ask you to analyse the contents of the USB drive?”

“No, but...” Not quite following what's going on here, I sigh again and slowly turn back around to face Ethan. “I thought it was implied, that you were only giving it to me to...”

“I'm giving it to you because it's important to me for you to know that I honestly feel as though I'm on to something, that... the sacrifices will ultimately be worth it,” Ethan states plainly. “Will... I'm hoping that you'll look at it and... see what I'm seeing. If you want to analyse it then, by all means, analyse it, but... and I can't stress this enough, I'm not expecting you to. It... It's just yours to do whatever you want with it.”

“I...” Believing him, not just because it's what I want so desperately to be true but because I can now see the sense in everything he's just said, I give him a sheepish look and shrug. “I thought...”

“I know what you thought, and you couldn't be more wrong. Hell...” Pausing, he catches my eye and smirks. “You couldn't actually have been more wrong if you'd put actual effort into it.”

“No?”

“No.”

“But...”

“Look. There's no denying that your skills at picking through intel are nothing short of... epic, but... Come on! Apply your overly logical mind to looking at it this way. Do you... seriously... think I'd dress up as vampire with delusions of being a rock star and, let's face it, walk into the lion's den just to hand you a USB drive? That... I couldn't... possibly... have managed to get it to you any other way?”

“When you put it that way,” I reply, holding my hands up in a mock display of surrender. “Fine. You win. I jumped, as you so creatively said it, spectacularly to the wrong conclusions, and you're really here because...”

“I'm only human,” Ethan finishes softly as he places his hand on my knee and, regardless of the fact he's actually driving in reasonably heavy traffic, fixing me with a searing look. “Will... I'm here because I miss you, because there's not a day that goes by without me thinking of you, and because I... I just wanted to see you. Not... uh... as a, and I can hardly believe I'm about to say this, booty call, or because I'm sick of my right hand, but... because I... just wanted to be with you. We can... play chess, or watch a movie, or you can just spend the rest of the night firing questions at me. I don't care. Whatever it is you want to do will still be worth the effort it's taken to get me here.”

“What I want,” I whisper, placing my hand over Ethan's, “is to forget all about The Syndicate, and Hunley, and the USB drive sitting in my pocket, and... You. All I want is... you. To make the most of our time together and...” Pausing, I place my hand over his and press down on it. “To make it a night to remember...”

“So... What you're saying is don't bother unpacking the chess set, huh?”

“I don't think the chess set needs to put in an appearance tonight, no,” I murmur, picking Ethan's hand up and, given that we're coming up to a busy intersection, somewhat pointedly placing it on the gear stick. “I... I get what you said about... tonight being whatever we want to make of it, that... nothing's predestined or set in stone, but... I want the obvious, and I want to squeeze as much as we can in one night, and I want...” Trailing off, I look down at my lap and give a small shrug. “I want, even if it is only for a small time, to forget everything else...”

“And, as always, you said it better than I ever could,” Ethan replies as, thankfully having gotten the hint to concentrate on his driving, he brings the car to a smooth stop at the red light. “Now... As we're only a few minutes away from the hotel, just... keep thinking happy thoughts and we'll be there before you know it.”

Knowing that no response is really needed, that we're already on the same page, I simply nod and watch both the traffic and the weird and wonderful sights that only come out on Halloween through the window. Sure, we could make small talk or, as it's something we've always found completely natural, banter about absolutely nothing in particular. We could even turn serious and discuss what we've been going through these past few months, but...

We don't.

We let comfortable silence reign supreme over the interior of the BMW and, each of us lost in our own thoughts of what's to come and, for me, how, when I woke up full of dread for the coming party this morning, I never would have thought it impossible, don't actually speak until we're safely ensconced in the privacy of Ethan's perfectly bland hotel room. King size bed, décor that's as forgettable as it is non-offensive, it's just a room like any one of the hundreds of hotel rooms I've been in and I can't help but notice, as Ethan disappears into the bathroom, that the only sign the room even has an occupant is a small brown leather carry bag neatly placed by the door.

Travel light, travel fast, and leave nothing behind. It's as much a motto of spies the world over as it is a necessary fact of our lives.

What it is also is though is a sad sign of things to come.

Out the door.

Gone.

Again.

Mentally shaking off the sense of melancholy that settled over me at the sight of his bag, I watch Ethan has he walks out of the bathroom and, noting that he's carrying a towel in his hand, raise an inquiring brow. “Dare I ask what the towel's for?”

“Your hair,” he replies with the sort of bright smile that tells me, as far as he's concerned, that's a perfectly acceptable, if not completely reasonable and comprehensive, response to my question.

“My... hair?”

“Mmm...” Reaching me, he drapes the towel over my head and sets about rubbing it vigorously through my hair. “The slicked back look, it's just not you, and... I'm not a fan.”

“You and me both,” I mumble through the towel, “but... if you think taking me back to my childhood and memories of my mother drying my hair counts as foreplay, then...”

“I've got another thing coming?”

“Something like that.”

“In that case...” Pulling the towel back with a flourish, Ethan drops it on the floor and runs his fingers through my hair for a couple of seconds before standing back and smiling with apparent satisfaction. 

“Better?” I query, only just resisting the urge to run my fingers through it myself as I smile back at him.”

“Much,” he confirms, grabbing a handful of his wavy blond wig and just ripping it off. “Now, my turn, yeah...”

Nodding, I step closer and, batting his hands away, carefully remove his wig cap before throwing it on the floor behind me and fussing with his hair as he takes care of ridding himself of the mask, contact lenses and fangs. The transformation from Lestat to – my – Ethan takes seconds and, as always, I can't help but be amazed how both quickly and easily it is to undo all the hard work that goes into creating the perfect disguise. Now that the mask is off and lying discarded on the table, I can see the 3D sculpting that has gone into creating the defined cheekbones and know that it wouldn't have been in the name of perfectionism and realism at all, and, really, would have been to fool all the facial recognition software that was keeping both careful and constant watch over the party.

What I also know is that he did it all for me. 

Just...

… To see me.

And for this moment at least it just makes everything okay. In fact, nothing, not The Syndicate, or Hunley, or the loss of the IMF, or even our separation, matters.

Nothing.

Just the moment.

And the man standing in front of me.

“Better?” Ethan murmurs, running his hands over his hair and half-heartedly striking a pose as he locks his gaze on mine and smiles hopefully.

“Oh... You have no idea,” I confirm as, patience suddenly up and leaving me in a rush, I close in on Ethan and wrap my arms around him. “You,” I add in a whisper, kissing first his forehead, then the tip of his nose and both of his cheeks. “At the risk of repeating myself, you're the one I want. The... only... one I want.”

“And you're the only one I want,” Ethan replies thickly, placing his hands on my shoulders and following my lead by kissing my forehead, nose, and cheeks. “Will... I want you to know that, although I'll be gone in the morning, leaving is going to be the hardest thing I've ever had to do...”

“Then...” Tightening my hold on Ethan, I press my chest against his and, choosing to embrace the here and now as opposed to the inevitability of the morning, murmur, “We'd better make the most of now, hadn't we...”

~ end ~

 

*** Additional Notes ***

Ted Annemann actually was a magician. That said, the sole reason I chose him for Will's costume is because Orlando the Magician from The Immigrant was actually based on him. (If this isn't enough of an explanation / justification... Google is your friend.)

Yes. Lestat. Again. I'd originally been going to go with a JAG uniform (from A Few Good Men), but... Well. Reasons. Okay. Vampiric reasons born out of a particular photograph that, while it doesn't feature in the fic in anyway, still... uh... resonated with me. Besides, when I turned to Google images for pictures of Lestat as a rock star, not only was I bombarded by the not-at-all-Lestat like guy from the (IMHO) truly awful Queen of the Damned movie, but Stacee Jaxx also popped up. So, you know, I took it as a sign.

Granted, I probably should have made the effort to turn to IMDB to check out whether Alec Baldwin's ever worn something worthy of a Halloween costume, but... Meh. Didn't care, so I didn't.

Anyone guess who the three SEALS are meant to be? Two are from current TV shows, and the other... I suspect only one person who may read this will actually get!


End file.
